


the real me/the one that you want

by JennaCupcakes



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Accidental Coming Out, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Francis Crozier Professional Bisexual, Gender Dysphoria, Genderqueer Character, Genderqueer James, Other, THE DRESS, Trans Legend Henry Le Vesconte, a little bit of internalized transphobia, alternating pronouns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:53:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24306967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/pseuds/JennaCupcakes
Summary: He was only here to pick a present for Dundy. That was how the whole things started. So really, like most things in his life, James would blame Dundy for it later.Or: James finds the perfect dress, and has an identity crisis.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 28
Kudos: 83





	the real me/the one that you want

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when people let me listen to [Maraschino-Red Dress $8.99 at Goodwill](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VB-cu3U4or4) approximately 500 times in a row. Yeah, I know. Title taken from another Ezra Furman song (again), [I Wanna Be Your Girlfriend](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8e1h31hVGSw). Erza, please stop writing songs that make me go absolutely feral. 
> 
> If you want further content warnings, check the author's note at the end, or shoot me a message on tumblr at [veganthranduil](https://veganthranduil.tumblr.com/).

He was only here to pick a present for Dundy. That was how the whole things started. So really, like most things in his life, James would blame Dundy for it later.

The second-hand shop was mostly empty, save for the elderly round clerk and a figure in one of the changing rooms that hadn’t emerged from behind the heavy curtains in the ten minutes James had been here. This time of day – a spring Friday lunchbreak – didn’t seem to be peak business hours for _Secondary Sources_ , a downtown second-hand shop tucked away on a side street between and independently owned bookstore and a Starbucks.

Henry’s birthday was coming up, and as tradition demanded, James’s gift to him would be a garish Hawaiian shirt. Finding said garish Hawaiian shirt was what had brought James downtown on his lunchbreak, to browse and hopefully strike gold before the party next week. It helped that James’s favourite Thai place wasn’t far from the shop, a fact he had discovered when he’d looked up the place on Google Maps.

James agonised over the perfect choice of shirt for nearly twenty minutes before he made a decision. He prided himself on having an eye for what suited Henry, which meant he had a reputation to maintain. He finally settled on a blue shirt with a flower pattern – the blue would go well with his hair, and the flower pattern would offend the party guests when Henry unwrapped the gift. It didn’t even have moth holes.

On his way to the register, James was stopped dead in his tracks. Something red caught his eye, like blood at the scene of an accident. It was the most intense red James had ever seen, so bright that it burned at the edge of his field of vision. He turned his head.

The dress hung from a rack slightly above James’s head. He had to tilt his head up to look at it – it was red, _very_ red, and very long. Whoever donated it to the store must have been a very tall woman, or tall in any case.

James forced himself to tear his eyes away. Then he looked back.

It looked long enough to fit him. The thought gripped him forcefully. Most dresses he’d seen in his life were so plainly made for the petite frames of small women, tiny scraps of delicate fabric. James had never seen a dress _his_ size.

He found himself reaching out instinctively. The fabric rustled quietly when James’s fingers grazed it. He couldn’t name the material, but it was stiff, stiffer than his cotton t-shirts. The red fabric highlighted the brown tone of his skin, even though his tan had faded over the winter months. James noted the contrast of the back of his hand over the red of the dress with fascination.

He wanted this dress. He couldn’t have explained why if someone put a gun to his head, but he wanted it.

His eyes caught the price tag dangling off the dress. Before he could think better of it, he caught the paper between his fingers and turned it. £8.99. It was nothing. It was everything.

He pulled the dress off the rack. At the checkout, the elderly man whose nametag identified him as one J. Bridgens took the shirt and the dress from James to type the prices into the old register with unhurried ease. When he picked up the dress he smiled, and James’s guts seized up tightly. He quashed the urge to look back over his shoulder, telling himself he wasn’t doing anything wrong.

“I was wondering if this would find a new home one day,” the clerk said, “When Natasha donated it, she said she hoped one day another queen would love it as much as she did.”

 _Queen?_ James nodded distractedly. He had a hard time convincing himself that the man wasn’t about to snatch the dress away from under his hands and proclaim him unworthy of it. He felt nauseous, but it was too late to back out now – a man buying a dress might be a curiosity, but a man taking a dress up to the counter and changing his mind was a coward, and that was not who James Fitzjames was. He paid and headed out of the shop before he could sweat through his suit completely. At a stationary shop closer to his office he bought some wrapping paper, then returned to his desk. The paper bag with the dress taunted him from its spot on the chair by the door to his office.

* * *

“Actually, I think I might just stay in tonight.”

James had the phone jammed between his shoulder and ear as he measured out some rice into a pot. On the other end of the line, Henry Le Vesconte, known to his friends as Dundy, scoffed. “You’re getting old, Fitz.”

“Maybe.”

Under normal circumstances, James would have welcomed an opportunity for drinks with his friend. He was of the age where he began to consider every close friendship maintained through job and apartment changes a miracle. But not tonight.

“Well, suit yourself. But you have to come over before the party next week and help me set up as penance.”

James laughed, the simple act of speaking to Dundy easing some of the nervous buzz that had drowned out his thoughts most of the day. “Alright. See you Friday, then.”

Henry blew a kiss through the phone. “Take care.”

James put his phone away, then went about making a quick dinner. The paper bag sat on the couch table in his living room. He went back to check on it when his rice was cooking, as though it could have gone anywhere.

He ate dinner over a show, the dialogue washing over him unheard and unremembered. He even did his dishes after dinner. When he had wiped down all the kitchen counters and the table in the living room and found himself contemplating doing a machine of laundry, he had to admit he was stalling.

 _Just put it on_ , he told himself irritably.

He took the paper bag to his bedroom. He put Henry’s present on his desk, tossing the paper bag with the dress on his unmade bed. The Ikea mirror he’d bought last year and still hadn’t put up was propped up against the wall, and James caught sight of himself in the mirror as he went to undress. He scoffed. He would look ridiculous.

He shivered in his boxers when he put his suit away and turned up the heater to ward away the chill in the air. Then he moved over to the bed, where the brown paper bag sat. He pulled the dress out.

J. Bridgens had folded it up nicely. It fell apart stiffly when James pulled it out of the bag, lines and lines of red that seemed to swallow up James’s hands. He took a deep breath.

It was a little awkward slipping into the dress, until James discovered the zipper hidden in the seam under the left arm, which made it easier for him to shimmy into it. Then he adjusted the neck until he felt the dress sat well and stepped in front of the mirror.

He looked grotesque.

The dress had clearly been made for a person with at least some cleavage, and James’s chest was as flat as a board. He didn’t fill out the fabric like it was meant to be, and as a result it just hung limply from his torso, making him look tall and gangly and awkward. He felt a hot wave of shame wash over himself.

Ridiculous. It had been a ridiculous idea from the beginning.

He moved to step away from the mirror and take off the dress to return it to the shop or bury it at the bottom of his closet where he would never have to see it again, but the movement parted the skirt of the dress and revealed a glimpse of his calf under the red fabric. Turned sideways, with his chin-length brown hair obscuring half of his face and his jawline, he looked –

He looked –

James turned again. From the front, he still saw the angled, broad-in-all-the-wrong-ways panes of his body. Turning to the side, a lithe, elegant creature was revealed: Her hair hiding half of her face, the fabric around the chest bulging slightly to suggest small breasts, her stomach flat and her legs long and shapely. James ran a hand down his body and almost found himself surprised to see his movements echoed by the creature in the mirror.

He had to sit down on the bed.

From here, he couldn’t see himself in the mirror anymore, but he could see his own legs peeking out from under the long hem of the dress. He had been right; the dress was clearly made for a man – _someone_ – his size. It felt strange, to have nothing on his legs besides his boxers and still be dressed, though not in a way he could ever go out in public. He scoffed at the idea. No. That would be –

He got up again. This time, looking at himself head-on in the mirror didn’t seem quite so grotesque. Even though he didn’t have breasts to fill out the dress, it had been tailored to make his waist appear narrower than it was, to give the illusion of full hips where there were none. He stuck his hip out in a cocky posture, then grinned at himself in the mirror and tossed his hair back over his shoulder.

“Hey sailor. Come here often?”

He shook his head. What was he doing?

He needed some wine.

In search of a bottle of red he had stored on top of a cabinet, he sauntered over to the kitchen. The back of the dress was low, and James felt a chill creep over his skin as he retrieved the bottle. There should be a shawl to go with the dress, he thought, though he couldn’t quite picture the colour. He poured himself a glass of red, then returned to his bedroom to stare at himself in the mirror while he sipped the wine.

He felt –

His feet, peeking out underneath the hem of the dress, looked too large. Too manly.

He felt –

Brushing a streak of hair back behind his ear, he felt like an old-time movie star, maybe Audrey Hepburn with her shy, unassuming beauty. It was a gesture he was well-accustomed to, but the dress transformed it into something delicate.

He felt good.

* * *

He called Henry on Sunday.

“I have a question for you.”

Henry was not only James’s oldest friend, but also the only person he knew who might understand, even when James himself didn’t quite understand what he was going through.

“A trans question.”

Henry made a small noise over the phone. “Ah. Perhaps over coffee, then?” His voice was a quiet, careful tone James had never heard from him before. “I just got a Portuguese brew from a local roastery. You’ll love it.”

“I’ll see you in twenty,” James said.

James had known Henry since they were little and had accompanied him through his transition with all the support one could offer if one didn’t quite understand what the other was going through. He’d felt for Henry’s misery in the early years, and he’d celebrated his milestones in the later years, cooking pots of soup for his friend after his top surgery or accompanying Henry to a tailor to pick out his first suit.

Henry and his wife lived on a quiet street on the first floor of a small house. James was endlessly jealous of their backyard, which had a porch swing and an apple tree. Henry was waiting for James with a cup of coffee when James rang the doorbell. Sadly, it was still too cold for the garden. They sat at the kitchen table instead.

“Is this going to be you telling me you’re finally bringing the elusive Francis to my birthday party?” Henry inquired; his grin mischievous in needling James.

“No,” James said distractedly. He had been seeing Francis for a couple of months now, and so far had kept his friends – which included Henry, and some other folks from their university days – and Francis mostly separate. He had never had great luck with dating. With Francis, he didn’t want to jinx it.

“What’s this ominous question, then?” Henry asked. James felt the sudden rush of embarrassment. He slumped forward. His forehead connected with the table, making a dull thud.

“Oh, I’m probably going to make an idiot of myself.”

He had worn a dress once and thought it looked good. What did he think that made him?

“Hey now,” Henry said, “Just tell me first, would you? I can always call you an idiot later.”

James snorted, but he gave up hiding his face in the table. “Alright,” he said, then looked at Henry again and felt the urge to hit his head against the table come on stronger. “Um, you don’t have to answer this question if it’s too... invasive. Obviously.”

At that, Henry actually laughed. “Fitz, you’ve seen me – let me count. You’ve seen me naked, piss drunk, in the A&E after I fell of my bicycle, in the A&E after I fell off my bicycle _again_ , and crying in the school toilet when Graham didn’t want to go out with me – and you’re still worried that there’s something that I’d call too invasive? I’d have to – what’s that thing they use in Men in Black?”

“Neuralyzers?” James supplied.

“Yeah, I’d have to use one of those on you if I was worried about _invasive_ ,” Henry said, “So spit it out.”

James took a deep breath. “Dundy… how did you know you were–” He raised his hand to gesture towards Henry, then stopped himself. “How did you know you were a man?”

Henry’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, as though appraising James.

“James…” He shook his head. “Never mind. That’s a hard one to answer.”

James shrugged, trying to play it off. The last thing he wanted to do was make his friend uncomfortable. “It’s fine, you don’t have to–”

“No, no, let me just…” Henry pursed his lips. “I suppose it’s – hmm. Did you and Will ever play dress-up as kids?”

James shook his head. “No.”

Henry drummed his fingers against the table, the way he did when he was thinking. “It was always moments like that, you know? Getting called ‘ _Mister’_ in the grocery store checkout line and feeling like it _fits_ for the first time. When I called my grandma on the phone and she thought I was a scammer cause my voice had dropped so much. _You’re not my Henry_ , she was yelling.”

Henry smiled and shook his head in remembrance. James snorted. “I remember that.”

“Or when Brin and I got married and she called me her _husband_ the first time. That felt good.”

The fond grin on Henry’s face was something James would always be jealous of. Henry leaned forward over the table, sliding his mug forward in his hands. “Can I ask what prompted this curiosity?”

James squirmed in his seat. “Promise not to laugh.”

“Did you laugh when I missed a spot cutting my own hair?” Henry asked. James grinned at him wryly. “I _did_ laugh.”

“You held out a full forty seconds. You tried so hard for me, and it’s the thought that counts.”

“I… bought a dress.” Henry gave him time to sort through his thoughts and figure out what he wanted to say next. James wasn’t sure he really wanted that freedom, but now that he had started, he was convinced to see this conversation through to the end. “It was my size, and I was… surprised, I guess. I tried it on. It looked… really nice.”

Henry was careful to keep his expression neutral; James could tell. James was feeling his way around the question he really wanted to ask. _What does it mean, Dundy? Tell me what it means, because I don’t know._

“You know there’s nothing inherently gendered about clothing,” Henry said carefully, “If you want to wear a skirt or a dress, I say go for it, man.”

James huffed. “But that’s not entirely true, is it? Clothes _are_ gendered.”

“Depends on how you wear them,” Henry agreed, “And you wanted to wear that dress as a woman?”

James took a deep gulp of coffee. It was probably a bad idea to drink the stuff, his hands felt shaky enough as things stood. “It felt nice. To pretend.”

Henry reached out and put a steadying hand on his arm. “It’s a bit scary, isn’t it?”

James let out a breath and nodded. “Yes.”

Henry smiled sympathetically. “I remember. Felt that way when I first put on a binder.”

“What am I, Dundy?” James asked miserably, “I’ve never…”

He stopped himself immediately, because he suddenly realised with a start that he could not make the statement he wanted to with absolute confidence. _I’ve never felt this way before_. Not consciously, at least.

“Hey,” Henry said, hand still on James’s arm. “You don’t have to figure it out all at once. This is a buffet. Take your time and look at the options before you load up your plate.”

The tabletop began to look very appealing to James again. “I’m a gay man, Dundy. I’ve been a gay man since I can remember.”

Dundy shrugged. “We all change. We all discover new stuff about ourselves all the time. I could have sworn I don’t like mushrooms until Brin made risotto yesterday.”

“My gender is not a goddamn risotto,” James moaned.

Dundy assured him it was not. He did send James home with two books and a promise to get dinner on Tuesday. James left his place not sure if he felt better or worse – unsettled might be the measure of it. On Monday, he threw himself into his work and tried his best to forget about all of it.

* * *

“What’s your shoe size?”

Henry’s party had come and gone. He’d loved the shirt, while Brin had looked at James with the long-suffering expression of a partner who had not been there at the inception of an inside joke and was now made to suffer it. The weather was more reliably nice now, which meant James got to go on runs again, and he and Francis had spent some pleasant dates in a café by the park. On one notable occasion it had started to rain, and James had to lend Francis his raincoat for the way home, which he considered a big step in the world of romantic gestures, since he hadn’t even asked when Francis would give it back.

He had _not_ gotten the dress back out from where he had hung it up in his closet – carefully, reverently – but sometimes he found himself brushing the fabric before he got dressed in the morning. A promise. A promise to what, he didn’t know.

And now Henry was calling him on a Thursday afternoon, just as James was considering clocking out early from work to go for a run, to ask about his shoe size.

“Seven and a half. Why?”

There was a bit of rustling on the other end of the phone. “Oh. Perfect!”

“What is?” James asked, getting more suspicious by the minute.

“I have a pair of pumps here that might fit you. A friend of mine was going to throw them out and I saved them. For you. If you want them.”

“I…” James swallowed the protest his brain threw at him.

“Was that too much?” Henry asked. “I’m sorry, I just saw the opportunity and thought of you–”

“No, it’s–” James rubbed at his eyes. “Thank you, Dundy. I think I would like that.”

“Great,” Henry said, “Do you want to pick them up after work?”

* * *

He was back in his bedroom, with the red wine and the red dress and the slightly mismatched red pumps. Somehow, it felt more daunting this time.

What if he wouldn’t be able to recreate that first feeling he’d had? It _had_ felt good, yes, but it could have been a fluke – the allure of something new, something that felt forbidden even though he rationally knew there was nothing wrong with it. Now he wasn’t sure what he feared more: that it would not feel as right the second time around, or that it would.

He took a deep drink from his red wine. That helped a little.

It was easier, putting on the dress the second time. He knew how it would fall, and how to zip it up, and how to fix the neckline. Then he reached for the pumps he’d picked up at Henry’s place earlier – Henry had given him an affectionate peck on the cheek and wished him good luck – and placed them on the carpet next to his bed. Sitting down on the bed, he carefully slid one foot into the shoe.

It was hard, assessing the fit of the shoe – James had never worn pumps but had heard women complain that they were supposed to be terribly uncomfortable, and so he wasn’t sure if the pressure he felt was normal or if the shoe was simply too tight. He slipped on the other one and then stood, on shaky legs, trying to figure out his new centre of gravity. When he was reasonably certain he had it, he took one step forward.

He felt like a stork. The shape of the shoe meant the most reasonable way forward seemed to be placing his weight on his toes first, and that was simply not a normal human way to walk. Three awkward steps brought him over to the mirror.

He didn’t look half bad.

He’d picked up a lipstick at Boots, trying to match the colour of the dress from his memory to the vast array of different shades of red. In the end, he’d picked one that he liked, even though he wasn’t sure it was the right colour, but wearing it, he found that it looked good with his brown hair. It suited the dress as well, in his opinion. The shade of the shoes was still a little off – nothing to be done about that – but the whole ensemble together looked _elegant_.

James went back to his nightstand to retrieve his wine glass, then returned to the mirror. Like this, he could imagine himself attending a concert of the London Symphony, a night at the opera, or maybe a fancy restaurant with Henry and some friends. In this version of events, people would look at him in admiration, or the way people looked at someone from TV when they saw them in the street, not quite believing it could really be them.

He should get some earrings – some that clipped on, maybe.

James was so lost in the image that he didn’t hear the key in the lock, nor the door swing open – not until there was a voice in his hallway, calling out.

“James? Are you home? I have your coat.”

 _Shit_.

James cursed under his breath, then gave in to his first impulse, which was to put down the wine glass next to the mirror and try to take off his shoes. Francis couldn’t see him like this, he would –

It was harder getting out of the damn shoes than it was getting in. James couldn’t balance on one leg long enough to take the first one off. He hopped over to his bed as Francis called again.

“James?”

He’d given Francis the spare key a little over two months ago, because he lived in perpetual fear of locking himself out of his apartment, and Francis lived closer than Henry. Maybe a little hope had played a part as well, like the sort of hope that Francis would take the gesture as the kind of play at something more serious that James intended it to be, but he hadn’t thought he’d be in his bedroom, in a dress he liked wearing a little too much, while Francis was in his hallway –

James keeled over inelegantly, barely catching himself on the edge of the bed. His knees made a loud _thump_ hitting the floor. James cursed, loudly this time.

“Are you alright?” Now that James had given himself away, Francis located him easily. James barely managed to struggle back to his feet, cursing God and his luck and whoever had invented high-heeled shoes, before Francis pushed open the door to the bedroom. “James, are you alr–”

The rest of the sentence died in his throat. James gazed up slowly, afraid of the truth meeting Francis’s eyes would bring. He could feel the hot flush of shame creep over his ears and neck. Righting himself, he smoothed out the dress, then looked at Francis head-on.

“Hello,” he said. It was the best thing he could think of.

Francis didn’t look disgusted, but he did look – stunned. His mouth hung half-open, and his eyes were travelling up and down across James’s form as though trying to put something together. He was holding James’s spare keys in one hand, and James’s borrowed raincoat in the other.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and swallowed, “I came to drop this off; I was in the neighbourhood. I didn’t mean to – I’m sorry.”

James felt the urge to apologize as well. He quashed it. Francis looked stunning as always, in a dark woollen coat with the collar turned up, his hair windswept and his cheeks red from the spring evening chill. It was stupid how much James liked him, but he did, and it took his breath away every time.

“Thank you,” he said, and then – because he didn’t know what else to do and couldn’t stand the awkwardness – he made his shaky way over to Francis and took the raincoat from his hands. He gave him a peck on the cheek like he normally would, feeling the stubble on Francis’s cheek under his lips, and when he drew back, Francis’s hand came up to touch the spot where James had kissed him. James thought he could spot the faintest ghost of lipstick on Francis’s cheek.

He put the coat on a hanger back in the closet, busying himself with making it neat. When he turned back, Francis was still staring at him.

“You look–” Francis’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times. “You look good,” he blurted out. By God, he was _blushing_. James – feeling quite emboldened all of a sudden – grinned. “You think so?”

Francis nodded, wordlessly. He swallowed again. James felt his mouth go dry to be looked at like that.

“Francis…” he said, careful like a warning, low like a temptation.

Francis took a deep breath. “Can we talk? I want to talk. About this.” He squeezed his eyes shut, in that way he did when he was frustrated. “Over coffee, please? It’s not bad. I just–”

James followed him through every emotional up and down of his run-on sentence. Francis forced his eyes open again and met James’s eyes. “I like you a lot, James, I–”

Unsure if it was welcome, James crossed the distance between them, and caught Francis’s fluttering hands between his own. Francis released a pent-up breath. “Bloody hell.”

“You like me?” James said. Francis looked down at their entwined hands and then back up at James’s face. From the look on his face, he liked what he saw. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, _yes_ , James.”

James grinned. Francis mumbled something about James thriving on praise.

“That’s good, because I like you, too, Francis.”

Francis’s eyes lit up in a way that brightened his whole face. He did his best to look like a miserable bastard on the day to day, but in James’s opinion, that only made the moments when he gave up the façade that much sweeter. James leaned in to kiss his cheek again, and then gave him a peck on his mouth.

“Why don’t you come over for breakfast on Saturday? Then we can talk.”

* * *

James made waffles for breakfast, then wondered if it was too much.

Francis showed up at James’s door, looking like he’d gotten about the same amount of sleep the last two nights as James had – which was not a lot. In one hand, he held a bouquet of flowers, which he thrust at James while blushing furiously. James couldn’t help but notice they were very red, same as the dress, and wondered if Francis had passed by a flower shop and thought of James when he saw the colour. The thought pleased him to no end.

“Thought you might like them,” Francis said, not meeting James’s eye. James held them gingerly as they moved down the hallway into James’s small kitchen. They smelled nice. “I do,” James said, “Thank you.”

He didn’t have a vase, which was a shameful oversight on his part, but he did have a glass pitcher that could hold the flowers just fine. He arranged them on the table, then served the waffles and settled down with Francis.

“I’m sorry,” Francis said before James could even get to his first waffle, “For barging in on you the other night. I was just going to drop off the coat and I thought you weren’t home. You didn’t answer the door when I knocked.”

James wasn’t surprised that he’d missed that.

“There’s no need to apologise, Francis,” he said, “I gave you the key, after all. I _want_ you to have it.”

He covered Francis’s hand with his own. Francis turned his hand so he could link their fingers together, and James felt his heart flutter. Francis was still here, sitting at James’s kitchen table – James saw the significance of that. For all the horrible ordeal of dating, Francis made it worth it. And he had brought James flowers, after all.

“I was… surprised,” Francis said, carefully, rolling the word over in his mouth like he was testing its corners and implications, “but not in a bad way.”

 _So was I_ , James wanted to say. He didn’t. They lapsed into silence, waffles forgotten, as James looked at Francis. He would have to find words to bridge the distance, eventually.

“If it’s any consolation, I don’t know what it means to me just yet, either,” James said, “I just saw the dress. And I liked it.”

“I liked you in it,” Francis said automatically, like he didn’t even have to think about it. Then he blushed again, embarrassed about giving so much of himself away.

“So you’ve said.”

James permitted himself a small smile. Francis was often so stingy with his gestures of affection, except when they slipped out of him against his better judgement or because it was in his nature to be honest. That made them all the more precious for someone like James, who was used to being flattered but seldom genuinely complimented. Francis was a piece of work, but he was rewarding.

Francis brought his other hand up to cover James’s hand linked with his. A finger drew gentle caresses on the back of James’s hand – idly, maddeningly – and James was overcome with the desire to kiss Francis for being sweet and understanding and simply himself. He would wait. Francis had wanted to talk, and James would talk, until Francis felt reassured.

“I like you, James,” Francis said, “I like _you_ , however you dress, however you want to be called, however the rest of the world sees you. I want you to know that.”

How strange to be sitting here with Francis, on a Saturday morning, in his tiny kitchen like this. Francis, who seemed to have no qualms to lay himself bare before James when the mood struck him. James’s mouth went dry at Francis’s words – at the depth of emotion in Francis’s voice, but also the realisation that Francis saw him. He had seen James, and he had not looked away.

James’s eyes burned, and he rubbed at them angrily. It was the hardest thing for him, to disregard what others thought of him – it was his greatest flaw, this fear of rejection he couldn’t shake. He wanted to trust Francis. Still, the voice at the back of his head, like insurance, had begun preparing for the worst just in case. And Francis had proven that voice wrong with a few quick words.

“Hey now…” Francis squeezed James hand and leaned in closer over the table. “It’s alright, James.”

James couldn’t master the swarm of emotions he felt – the gratefulness and the fear of the unknown, the weight suddenly lifted from his shoulders and the depth of his affection for Francis. It all came out in a rather inelegant: “Stop being so sweet, or I’m actually going to start sobbing.”

Francis laughed, heartily. James seized him by the front of his stupid sweater (which he would steal some day in the near future, when Francis would least expect it), hauled him over the table and kissed him soundly. Francis tasted like the coffee James had brewed. It was a while before either of them got to breakfast.

* * *

“I have a question,” Francis said to James in July, when they were taking a walk in the park again, James’s hand linked with Francis’s in a way that felt wonderfully normal. He’d since taken Francis to meet Henry and felt that overall, things were going very well, which was why upon hearing Francis use that particular phrase, James looked at him with a broad grin and said, “I think it’s still a little early for that, don’t you think?”

Francis, whose thoughts had clearly been firmly occupied with something else, blinked. “What?”

James, realising his joke about proposals had been ill-timed, blushed. “Ah. Never mind. What was your question?”

Francis blinked again, this time with realisation. “Oh, no, nothing like that. Not that I wouldn’t – I mean, you’re right, it’s still early – damn you, James.”

James smiled again. “I love you, too, darling.”

Francis had acquired the habit of silencing James with a kiss when he thought James was being insufferable, perhaps not realising he was only encouraging James’s antics. It took a while for them to resume their walk, and when they did, James’s pants felt rather tight all of a sudden. His hold of Francis’s hand had become somewhat more of a grip.

“Er.” Francis cleared his throat. “Yes,” James said. “What was your question?”

“It can wait,” Francis said.

* * *

The matter didn’t come up again until two weeks later, with Francis seated on James’s couch and James’s long legs sprawled across his lap. James had opened a bottle of red wine after dinner which they had half emptied, and James was feeling the delicious post-dinner haze that only excellent Italian food could inspire. The only thing that could possibly put him in a state of greater bliss would be a massage from Francis, but that would require them to move, and James currently felt incapable of any kind of movement.

“I had a question for you,” Francis said, and James suddenly remembered their afternoon walk. He refrained from making a joke this time, nodding instead. Francis pursed his lips. “I was wondering if you – ah – if you would like to put on the dress again.”

Francis was a beautiful man, and an accomplished lecturer. He had published his second book to critical acclaim last year, would be going on a book tour in autumn, and his student evaluations rated him as strict but competent. His colleagues saw him as dependable, as did his friends – and he couldn’t hide his emotions for shit. James watched him blush, all the way to the tips of his ears. It delighted him to no end.

Of course, James knew he didn’t look much better – his mouth had gone dry, and his cheeks felt rather warm. The dress had made a couple more appearances, always when James was alone. He had since acquired a shawl at a flea market, beautiful and woollen. It had immediately been given a favoured spot on his couch, where he loved to wrap himself in it on chilly weekend mornings. It was lying there now, even though it had been unbearably hot the last couple of months.

James caught Francis’s eye. He swallowed.

“I would like that very much.”

James couldn’t put into words how the thought affected him – to put on the dress for Francis, to dig the pumps out of the closet and find the lipstick and make himself _pretty_ for this wonderful man currently sitting on his couch looking like he was about to faint with arousal or embarrassment or both. James righted himself, tucked his legs under him and leaned forward to kiss Francis. He’d meant the kiss to be short, but Francis’s hand found its way into James’s hair and kept him anchored into the press of lips. James groaned, and Francis shuddered.

“ _James_ ,” he whispered when he broke away, sounding halfway to wrecked.

“You’ll have to give me a minute,” James said, just as reluctant to part with Francis. He eventually managed to pull away, leaving Francis on the couch with an expression that looked adorably heartbroken. He rose more slowly than James, reaching the bedroom when James was already half out of his clothes.

“I changed my mind,” Francis announced when he saw James shaking his ass in an attempt to get his skinny jeans to move further down his hips, “Sex now.”

“You’d make an adorable caveman,” James said over his shoulder, then let out a triumphant _ah_ when the jeans slid past his hips and he could finally step out of them. Francis had snuck up behind him in the meantime, caressing James’s rear over his boxers. “Mhhh.”

James leaned back into the touch. “Darling…” he said softly, and Francis made a whining noise at the back of his throat, but he let James go.

James pulled the dress from his coat hanger. He’d had a whole idea about putting on lipstick, maybe doing something with his hair, but Francis was right there looking like a goddamn Olympic discus-thrower, and James’s patience only extended so far.

“Help me with the zipper?” He said and Francis stepped up obligingly. “Can’t believe I’m asking you to put clothes _on_ ,” Francis muttered, then stepped back again to admire his work. His lips parted in a silent gasp.

James ran a hand through his hair, trying to seem nonchalant and ruining it by chewing on his bottom lip. He couldn’t quite shake the first impression he’d had of himself in the dress, the image of the too-tall, awkward figure standing in front of a shitty Ikea mirror trying to seem elegant – but by the look on Francis’s face, that wasn’t what he was seeing. He looked at James like there were a million things to catalogue and he wanted to commit them all to memory at once. His eyes kept returning to James’s face, and when they did, there was a small, nervous smile around them that made James’s heart flutter helplessly in his chest. Francis looked at him with desire, yes, but he also looked at James with love, and that was almost too much for James to bear.

He crossed the short distance between them and kissed Francis soundly.

Francis’s hands hovered a hair’s breadth over James’s hips for a moment, fluttering like birds, before James seized them firmly and pulled Francis in. Francis’s hands wandered higher, seizing James around the waist with broad hands, and James gasped. He felt delicate, being held like this. He felt wonderful.

Francis moaned quietly into the kiss, his tongue mapping the shape of James’s mouth. He was all blunt desire, so open about everything he wanted that James felt no shame in giving it to him, just a simple joy that this man should trust him so much to ask for it. James pressed the long expanse of his body against Francis, wanting to feel all of Francis and wanting Francis to feel him. Francis used the hold he had on James’s waist to haul him closer, one hand dipping lower and seizing James’s backside in a firm grasp. James gasped when Francis angled one of his legs forward so that James could press up against it, his cock hard in his boxers.

Francis pulled back from the kiss, his forehead glistening with sweat. “What should I – what can I call you?” James didn’t quite understand the question, too preoccupied with the delicious friction of grinding his cock against Francis’s leg. He made an inquisitive noise and dipped his head lower to nuzzle at Francis’s neck. “Can I call you beautiful? Can I call you pretty? Can I call you my woman?”

Francis’s words were punctuated by his heavy breaths. James felt a jolt of arousal go through his body, his cock twitching hotly. “Yes,” he whispered in Francis’s ear, and Francis shuddered in response.

“Then let me take you to the bed, my beautiful woman.”

There wasn’t an iota of insincerity in Francis’s words. He said it, and James believed him – he was beautiful, desirable, a _woman_. James Fitzjames, a tall woman in a red dress was about to have her brains fucked out by her gorgeous boyfriend.

James sprawled backwards on her bed, splaying her legs as wide as the dress would allow. Now she was glad she hadn’t put the shoes on. Francis kneeled on the bed over her, knees braced on either side, and leaned down to kiss her while one hand traced the lines of her body that were hidden under the dress. James found herself shaking in anticipation.

Francis ground himself down against her cock, his eyes fluttering shut as a groan of pleasure escaped his lips. James was enticed by the expression on his face, that this was what she did to him. She put her hands on Francis’s hips and urged him on, encouraging him to grind down against her again and again. She felt wonderfully used.

Too soon, Francis pulled back. “James, wait.” He was breathing heavily, face patchy red and sweaty. He was still fully dressed and _very_ hard inside his jeans. James let him go reluctantly, off the bed where he stripped as though his clothes had personally offended him. It made James laugh, a sound that turned into a moan when Francis’s cock sprang free of his underwear. No matter how many times James saw Francis undress, the sight of it would always leave him licking his lips in anticipation. Francis knew this, and grinned.

“You should fuck me,” James said. Francis met his eyes. They were dark, his gaze heated. He swallowed. “All in due time.”

He knew where James kept the lube in his nightstand. James caught it with ease when Francis tossed him the tube and a condom, then suppressed a shiver when Francis came back to the foot of the bed. Francis ran a hand over James’s unclothed legs as far as the dress would let him. “Can you get the skirt a little higher?”

There was some awkward shimmying as James tried to hitch the pencil-skirt up higher. They both dissolved into laughter when they realised it wouldn’t go as far as Francis wanted it. Francis pressed his forehead against James’s hip, trying to compose himself.

“I’m going to need you to take this off,” he said thickly, after a moment of measuring each intake of breath with care. “That’s alright,” James said. The thrum in his body wasn’t something that came or went with a piece of clothing, he realised that now. It was in the way Francis had looked at him and _seen_ him. Francis helped him pull the dress over his head, then eased James back on the bed. James raised his hips to help Francis take of his underwear, and before he was fully settled back on the bed, Francis had taken nearly all of James’s cock into his mouth.

James shouted, the wet warmth around his hard cock a delicious torture. Francis hummed, pleased with himself. James nearly went cross-eyed with pleasure, and silently vowed to make Francis the biggest breakfast in the history of mankind for being the best man in James’s life.

“I love you so much,” James said breathlessly, “Oh my _God_ , Francis.”

Francis pulled off, looking at James with a raised eyebrow. “You always say that when I’m sucking your cock.”

James would have said something clever. He had the perfect repartee pieced together in his mind. It would be witty and devastating, and it went wholly out the window when Francis sucked the head of James’s cock back in his mouth. James made a noise that was absolutely undignified.

He never lasted long under the gentle assault of Francis’s tongue on the slit of his cock. Already he could feel the heat building low in his stomach, delicious and drawn-out and perfect, which was why he completely missed Francis fumbling for the lube, or slicking up one finger. James was only let in on Francis’s devious plan when Francis rested his finger at James’s entrance, which prompted James to buck his hips and whine again. “Yes, please Francis–”

Francis didn’t make him beg for long. At the first breach of his finger, James moaned loudly, fighting for composure all the while. It felt delicious to allow Francis into these most private parts of himself, like there was nothing he needed to keep from Francis.

James was afraid he would come before Francis could get to fucking him, Francis kept him so close to the edge. He was teetering there, at the mercy of Francis’s tongue and his fingers stretching him open, but Francis knew him well. When he finally released James, taking his mouth and his fingers away so he could right himself and roll on the condom, James wanted to sob, and he wasn’t sure whether it would have been for the loss of Francis or relief.

Francis pushed in carefully, always mindful of James’s comfort. James urged him on with his heels digging into Francis’s back, desperate beyond belief. He didn’t know how Francis found the patience to restrain himself for so long.

“One of us has to be patient,” Francis teased, his words undercut by the rough tone of this voice. His arms were shaking, not so much from exertion as from the feeling of penetrating James.

Filled by Francis’s cock, James felt ecstatic. Francis above him had a smile plastered to his face that he seemed wholly unconscious of, simply born from looking at the vision of James spread out before him. He rolled his hips slowly, and James rose to meet him, their movements practised and familiar and still exciting. Francis moaned.

“You’re so fucking perfect James – _Jesus_ , you’re so beautiful–”

James wished he could draw Francis into himself and keep him there forever. There was something absolutely divine about being stretched open by Francis, the feeling of being so close to this incredible man that he loved. It made James spread his legs wider, draw Francis in further, until he could feel Francis’s cock brush that spot inside him that had him arch of the bed, impale himself further on Francis’s pulsing cock. Francis pitched forward, shaking with the sensation of filling James so deeply.

“There?”

James nodded, breathlessly. His face felt flushed, and he felt another hot wave of want rolling over his skin when Francis pulled out, then thrust back in against that spot.

“Francis, _fuck_ …”

James was shaking, he realised. He was clutching at Francis’s back like a lifeline, the only thing keeping him from floating away in a haze of pleasure. Francis shifted his weight and wrapped one hand around James’s aching hard cock, his grip firm around James, who was so sensitive with feeling it threatened to overwhelm him. He didn’t want to give in, not just yet – he wanted to draw out this perfect bliss for as long as he could. Then Francis dug his thumb into the sensitive spot under the head of James’s cock while slamming home and James was pushed over the edge, all the heat coiled low in his stomach released in a sudden white-hot burst of light behind his eyelids as he spurted across his stomach and chest. His muscles tightened around Francis’s cock and his legs anchored Francis deep inside his body as he shook and squeezed around Francis.

Francis groaned, lowly and broken, trying to press himself deeper into James. His eyes squeezed shut, his brow furrowed, he breathed heavily for a couple of seconds before half-shouting a strangled moan and pitching forward helplessly, his release shaking him to his very core.

After a long moment of both of them laying motionlessly, James brought a shaking hand up to Francis’s back. He ran his fingers over the sweaty, cooling skin. Francis stirred lightly, but made no other move. James prodded at him more insistently.

“Francis?” A noise that not even the most charitable interpreter would classify as words. James ran a hand through his hair, and Francis sighed contentedly. “Francis?”

“Can’t a man have a bloody minute?” Francis groaned. But he pulled out, James’s muscles clenching around empty air. He felt bereft, and complete, and wonderful. James had to kiss Francis again.

“Let me throw the condom away.” Francis broke the kiss reluctantly to leave the bed, returning from his trip to the bathroom with a washcloth to clean up the mess James had made of himself. James was proud to say he had no qualms about a gorgeous man spoiling him.

“Did you like that?” Francis said shyly, after a while. He had his head nestled in the crook of James’s arm, his body lose and warm against James’s. “When I called you my woman. I thought – girlfriend sounds so infantilizing. You deserve–”

He made a frustrated noise. James kissed his forehead to reassure him. “It was wonderful,” he said, a thrill running through him at the mere memory of it. “I think I would like it if you called me that more often. With everything that goes with it.”

“How often?” Francis asked.

“Not always. But… sometimes. More than occasionally.”

James thought he could see a picture beginning to take shape, the sort of painting that became clearer from farther away. He couldn’t make out all the details yet, but that was alright. He was confident he could figure them out.

* * *

It was April again. They were at Henry’s birthday party, this time in the garden, the weather miraculously clear for April. The skirt James had picked out was nevertheless of a thicker wool, to keep her warm as the sun went lower. Francis at her side had chosen a dark grey sweater that made him look like a distinguished sea captain. James had told him so earlier, and Francis had scoffed fondly.

“You are ridiculous.”

James had agreed with that.

There were a couple of people that James only knew in passing, and many people Francis hadn’t yet met. At some point during the afternoon, Henry pulled James aside. “You look wonderful.”

James smiled. “Thank you.”

It had taken some courage to get here – to silence the voice of doubt, and ignore the comforts of the familiar to be able to stand here today, as a more authentic version of herself. Like Henry had said, they were all growing and getting to know themselves more every day.

“You know, you will have to show me that dress eventually,” Henry said, “The one that inspired it all.”

James laughed, heartily. “I’m sure you’ll hate it. It’s very cliché.”

Henry squeezed her arm affectionately. “I’m sure I’ll love it. It gave me more of my James to discover.”

James swallowed thickly, then threw an arm around her friend on impulse. “I love you, Dundy.”

“I love you too, James. Though I’m beginning to think Brin may stage a mutiny if she has to lay eyes on another Hawaiian shirt. Where do you keep finding these?”

James caught sight of Francis as she and Dundy moved towards the barbecue. He was talking to a couple James didn’t know, looking more at ease than James had ever seen him at a party. As James watched, he turned and gestured towards James. It was a small gesture, the way someone answered a polite question at a party, like _who are you here with_ , or _how do you know Henry_. James heard Francis answer the question over the chatter of the guests. Francis’s voice would always stand out to her, even in the largest crowd.

“That’s my partner, James. She and Henry are old friends.”

James grinned, and waved back at the couple. She felt a million feet tall.

**Author's Note:**

> James finds a dress at a second-hand shop that he likes. He puts it on, proceeds to have a little identity crisis over it but eventually comes to terms with it. Francis accidentally walks in on him wearing the dress, and there is some awkwardness in communicating over the whole situation, but Francis is absolutely supportive and 100% loves James. 
> 
> James uses she/her and he/him alternatingly. Shoutout to [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21864949) for first making me consider the beautiful potential of James using alternating pronouns.


End file.
